


A Lovesick, Starving Animal

by Neyiea



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Jerome, Cannibalism, Horror Elements, M/M, Murder Husbands, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28469328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: Jerome went out hoping to make a kill. His boyfriend beats him to it, then pins him down with a knife held against his throat.Jerome is, understandably,in love.
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 37
Kudos: 127





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miIkobitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miIkobitch/gifts).



> New year, same me. 
> 
> If you haven't read  
> [Eat the Rich](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26940127%20rel=)  
> you might want to give it a glance over. Or not. Live your best life. 
> 
> Title from Cannibal by SnowBlood, which is def the song that Jerome-heart-eyes-Valeska unironically uses as Bruce's ring-tone in this universe. 
> 
> Oh my god I think I am a cannibal  
> Love your taste thank god I am a carnivore  
> Blood blood lust a lovesick starving animal  
> Oh my god I think I am a cannibal

Bruce’s eyes shine; not with anger or malice but with unshed tears. His inhalations catch in his throat and his exhalations burst forth from his mouth, as if he is seconds away from breaking down into sobs. His expression is pained, his face wan, his entire body coiled with tension. 

The knife that he’s holding against Jerome’s throat is very subtly shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, poised above Jerome with one hand pressing against Jerome’s chest hard enough that Jerome is sure that Bruce can feel the rapid beating of his heat. “I’m so sorry. I wish you hadn’t seen that. I really wish—” His breath hitches. A tear spills from his eye and splatters onto Jerome’s upturned face. “Jerome, I can’t let you get away now that you know. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Jerome, closer to death than he has ever been before in his life, thinks with a sudden clarity,

I love you. 

I am _in love with you._

Saying so now might not be the best time, he realizes, considering the events of the past few minutes. Considering the events of the past few months, even. So instead of saying anything he reaches one hand up to grasp the hand trembling around the handle of the knife.

The other he draws into the concealed folds of his jacket to covertly pull out a knife of his own. 

Theirs had been a whirlwind romance, unexpected by them both—by all of Gotham, really—but by Jerome most of all. Back when the news of Gotham’s precious _Prince’s_ return to the city was still fresh in every snippet of socialite gossip Jerome had already begun making his own particular mark on the city, and he’d been eager to stir everything up even more by making the Prince of Gotham disappear without a trace, just like the handful of other walking-talking cheque-books that Jerome had targeted before him. 

Jerome had thought that, maybe, Bruce Wayne would be the one whose raw heart he would leave behind, one bite torn out of it and devoured to signify what had been happening to the Gotham elite who had been disappearing without a trace for months. To finally leave evidence for the police to figure out that they were being _eaten_.

He’d been ready for it, been excited for it. He’d thought that Bruce would end up being his most significant kill ever.

But that hadn’t happened. He’d changed his mind. Changed his plans. Murdered yet another rich asshole who he couldn’t even bother to remember the name of. Asked Bruce out.

Took him on dates. Held his hands. Kissed him.

_Cooked for him._

Bruce was practically perfect; striking and sweet, and he didn’t mind whenever Jerome happened to bite him too hard accidentally-on-purpose because he just couldn’t resist the blue-blood running through his boyfriend’s veins. Bruce was the reason why Jerome didn’t go off the deep end when a new killer turned up in town with seemingly the exact same modus operandi as himself: taking members of the Gotham elite and making them disappear like smoke. 

Bodies were piling up, either out of sight or in the river, or in Jerome’s fridge or freezer or on his cutting board. The corruptly wealthy were finally starting to realize that they weren’t as safe as they thought they were. They thought the work of two was the work of one, and they trembled and cowered at the knowledge that someone was out there, killing so quickly and efficiently with the only thing linking the victims being that they were rich.

They used to think that they were above everything. They used to think that their money could save them or make them untouchable. They’d learned otherwise in the half a year that Jerome had been active. 

Jerome had been trailing after his newest target for a few weeks, now, because the man was incredibly hard to corner, but someone else had beaten him to it.

_Bruce_ had beaten him to it.

“I’m sorry Jerome.” In the present the knife presses more firmly against him, but Bruce is lingering, too emotional to put an end to it quickly. 

He really didn’t want to do this. 

My poor darlin’, Jerome thinks as his fingers skim over Bruce’s; gentle, devoted. Another tear drips onto his face. His other hand grips onto the handle of his own knife. There’s no need to cry, Bruce, I’ll prove it to you.

“I like you so much, I really do, but I can’t let you tell anyone, I can’t let you stop me.”

Because he’d seen it.

He’d seen what Bruce had done to the man that Jerome had set out to kill.

He hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away, not even when Bruce stepped back from the dead body, not even when he began to turn, not even when he caught sight of Jerome and froze for one dizzying second, their eyes locked, Jerome for the first time ever feeling as if he were looking at someone who could match him in absolutely every way. Someone who could see him for what he was and _understand._

And then Bruce had tackled and pinned him to the ground before Jerome could think to say anything. 

And then Bruce, who Jerome had already been very attracted to and very fond of even _before_ witnessing Bruce commit murder, held the knife which was already wet with someone else’s blood to his neck.

It’s been less than a minute, surely, but each second is stretching out into an eternity and Jerome feels as if he’s been caught up by Bruce, millimeters away from having his throat slit, for an hour.

“This is something I have to do.” Even though Bruce is crying, there is resolution in his eyes. Jerome memorizes the sight of it, of Bruce preparing to kill. “I can’t let anyone stop me Jerome, not even you.”

Jerome’s fingers grip Bruce’s hand tighter.

And his other hand lifts his own knife up to Bruce’s unprotected abdomen. 

He can tell when Bruce feels the sharp edge, can tell exactly when Bruce figures out what it is, because Bruce goes completely still. Even the trembling of his hand underneath Jerome’s stops. He takes a deep breath, his first full inhalation ever since he pinned Jerome down, and his eyes gain a sharpness that makes Jerome want to strip him down right now and suck bruises everywhere that his mouth can reach.

“I really like you too, Bruce,” he says. “And I can sincerely say that I have no plans about telling anyone what just happened.” 

Bruce looks down at him, glossy eyes searching his expression for any sign of falsehood.

“I understand you’re scared, and it’s probably difficult to trust me right now, but Bruce, why do you think I was here?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce tells him; soft, agonized. “Maybe… Maybe I slipped up somewhere, and you got suspicious, and you decided to follow me, and now, and now—”

“You didn’t slip up.” Jerome had honestly had no idea that Bruce was capable of something like this. No one would ever have any idea, and wasn’t that just _so_ exciting? Sexy, even. “I didn’t follow you here.” 

Bruce looks down at him, his expression closing off into something that Jerome can barely interpret. 

“Then why were you here?”

Jerome feels his lips pull into a wide smile. The kind of smile he’d show off to his victims, just before he spelled their end. The kind of smile he’s kept hidden away from Bruce, not wanting to scare him away.

“Because, darlin’, _I_ was going to kill him.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤❤❤

Bruce’s pulse is bounding, his eyes are stinging, and his chest is so tight that he can hardly breathe. Five minutes ago he’d killed someone—it wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last if he had anything to say about it—and he’d felt nothing like this, not until he’d turned around and saw Jerome looking right at him, speechless for the first time since Bruce had met him.

He’d been overcome with the raging waves of emotion, then.

This was why he was supposed to be alone. This was why he shouldn’t have allowed himself any kind of new attachment after he’d come back home. He didn’t care about the people who he killed; they deserved it, it was their own fault, they’d had it coming for years. Jerome, though… Jerome’s death would hurt him just as keenly as if Bruce was holding the knife to his own flesh, but he couldn’t risk letting him live, not when Bruce was finally getting started, not when he still had so much more to do.

Jerome dying was going to be Bruce’s fault in more than one way. If Bruce had kept his distance, like he should have, this never would have happened. 

Perhaps this was his punishment for getting close to someone when he’d known that it would be better for him to stay outside of anyone’s reach. Getting close to people… It could only end in tragedy. 

The feeling of something sharp—a blade—against his unprotected stomach brings his dizzily whirring thoughts back into focus, and it isn’t long before Jerome is smiling up at him, wide and sinfully delighted, as he softly speaks words into the scant space between them. 

“Because, darlin’, _I_ was going to kill him.”

He stares down at Jerome, momentarily stunned. 

“Why?” Bruce eventually rasps out.

What kind of reason could Jerome _possibly_ have to—

“He was at the party we were at a few weeks ago.” Jerome’s look darkens, his smile sharp and sinister enough that Bruce thinks, maybe, he wasn’t actually lying about wanting to kill the man that Bruce had been carefully tracking. “I didn’t like the way he kept looking at you; uppity bastard deserved what he had coming to him.” Jerome’s knife taps, almost playful, against Bruce, and his expression turns into something that Bruce has had months to become familiar with.

Jerome looks at him like this whenever he wants to start something. This time, though, it’s not kissing that he’s eager for.

“I get the feeling that you killed him for a different reason. I have to tell you, Bruce, it seemed pretty personal.”

“It is,” Bruce whispers. He’s not sure whether or not he should pull his knife away from Jerome’s neck, but Jerome is still holding his hand over the hilt, not pushing him away, just keeping him still. It’s almost soothing. Almost comforting. “It’s very personal.”

“And this isn’t the first time you’ve killed, is it?”

Bruce clenches his eyes shut and breathes.

“No.” 

Jerome’s fingers begin slipping over his wrist, up his arm, trailing over his cheek before digging into his hair.

“Want to know a secret?” His voice is mischievous, verging on flirty, and Bruce starts to believe that maybe… 

Maybe there’s a reason why Jerome had been so level-headed when Bruce had been hovering over him with a knife that he clearly knew how to use. Maybe it’s because, if he had any common sense, Bruce would be more scared of Jerome than Jerome is of him. Maybe it’s because Jerome had wanted to kill someone who fit a particular profile, one that Bruce had been taking conscious advantage of when he came back home with the knowledge that one of the people on his _list_ had already died at the hands of someone _else._

Bruce’s eyes open again, and when his gaze locks with Jerome’s he feels an odd sort of calm settle over him like a warm, heavy blanket. 

“Tell me.”

Jerome licks his lips, ruffles his fingers through Bruce’s hair in a way that is heart-wrenchingly familiar, and he pulls the knife away from Bruce’s stomach. 

Bruce could kill him now easily. 

He doesn’t.

Jerome’s eyelashes flutter as he shifts, and Bruce finds himself drawn closer, leaning further down towards him, waiting for a confession that will either prove or disprove the theory that has suddenly made its way into his head. 

Are you the other one, he thinks, has it been you this whole time?

And then Jerome whispers,

“I have never been so turned on in my life.”

Bruce rocks back, knife falling away from Jerome’s neck. A comment like that is too-normal in a situation like this. Bruce shouldn’t find it funny and he definitely shouldn’t find it charming, but for some reason he has to purse his lips together in order to consciously keep them pressed into a flat line. When he speaks, after taking a few seconds to collect himself, his tone is dry. 

“Jerome.”

“What? Not a good time?”

“No. I… I have _a body_ to dispose of.” And every minute he wasted was a minute closer to getting caught, even if Jerome had no intentions of turning him in.

“Yeah,” Jerome agrees, somewhat breathless. It belatedly occurs to Bruce that he might not have just cracked a joke in order to break the tension surrounding them, there might have actually been some truth to his statement. “Want me to help with that? You could show me where _yours_ go, and eventually…” Jerome’s hands trail up Bruce’s thighs before gripping at his hips in a way that makes Bruce’s breath catch. “I could show you where _mine_ go.”

Where mine go.

You are the other one, aren’t you, Bruce thinks. His heart, which had finally started to settle down, begins to pick up the pace all over again. He stares down at Jerome’s face; the mouth that he’s kissed and the cheeks that he’s stroked and the eyes that have always seemed to pierce deeper into him than anyone else’s; as if Jerome could see him for what he was and _understand._

He rises to his feet and holds out a hand. It feels strange, to be offering help to Jerome when minutes ago he’d been sure that he was going to have to kill him, but Jerome grins at him and grabs hold of him, allowing himself to be assisted up.

“We don’t have all night.” But you know that already, don’t you? “I’ve got stuff in my trunk.”

Jerome hums in unconcealed interest, eyes sparking hotly. It’s almost enough to make Bruce flush. 

“Lead the way, darlin’.”

He does.

Bruce has only disposed of a few bodies in Gotham before now—he worried about going too fast, about getting sloppy, about getting caught and being unable to finish—but he’s meticulous, just like he is with most things. Sometimes he might be a little too meticulous, taking long enough to make sure no trace is left behind that he edges into dangerous territory. 

An extra set of hands and eyes speeds up the process exponentially, this time around. Jerome doesn’t talk to him during their undertaking, which Bruce is grateful for because there’s a lot more to process right now than just the fact that he can cross another name off of his list, merely taking silent direction and following Bruce’s lead.

It’s when they’re driving away from the scene, the body wrapped up in the trunk, that Bruce realizes that perhaps Jerome wasn’t talking because he was using all of his concentration to _observe_. He’d been watching Bruce avidly throughout the entire process; silently judging his methods, internally making notes about what Bruce was good at and what he could improve on.

His hands grip the wheel even tighter, his knuckles turning white.

Or it could be that Bruce is just paranoid now that he and Jerome are silently sitting together on their way to get rid of a body. He keeps his eyes on the road, but at the very corner of his vision he can see that Jerome is facing him, openly staring at him. When they come to a red-light Bruce allows himself a moment to glace in his direction, and he has to fight down the instinct to lean in for a kiss, because Jerome is looking at him with such clear, unconcealed affection that Bruce could happily drown in it. 

Jerome inches a little closer, reaching out with one of his hands to brush Bruce’s hair away from his forehead. Bruce’s grip on the steering wheel loosens. 

“What do you suppose are the chances,” Jerome starts with enough humour in his tone to make Bruce relax even further, “that two serial killers would be in the same car?”

A soft huff leaves Bruce’s mouth, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and the corners of his lips quirk. This kind of conversation feels so familiar, despite the new subject matter, that Bruce could almost forget that they’re about to throw a weighted-down body into the river. 

“What do you suppose are the chances that we met each other at all?” Bruce counters. 

Jerome makes a low noise in his throat, thoughtful, before he answers.

“Unlikely enough that this almost makes me believe in destiny.”

In his chest Bruce’s heart flutters. 

It’s late enough, dark enough, quiet enough that getting rid of the body is easy. It does, of course, help that Bruce had scoped out this location thoroughly before deciding that it would be the next spot. Despite the shiny new security cameras that would scare most people away Bruce knew exactly where the blind-spots were from several nights of careful trespassing and monitoring. Soon there is another dead body hidden under dark water, deep enough that it will be a long time before it is found, if it is ever found at all. 

Usually he would be making his way home now, sneaking in quietly enough that either Alfred wouldn’t notice at all or wouldn’t ask him too many questions about where he’d been. Having a boyfriend had been very helpful in the sense that Alfred now generally assumed that if Bruce were out late and secretive about returning home it was because he was, for lack of a better term, getting it on the regular. 

But now he is in his car _with_ said boyfriend, after said boyfriend helped him get rid of a body, after threatening said boyfriend’s life, after said boyfriend had watched him kill someone.

He’s not sure what he ought to do, this time. 

Jerome presses a lingering kiss to his cheek, though, and whispers, “Let’s go back to my place.”

“To talk? Or to make out?” Because with the way Jerome has been acting both options seem equally likely. Bruce still has bruises littered over his chest and hipbones from the last time they were together. Jerome always seemed eager to sink his teeth into him, and Bruce didn’t mind the sharp stings and the dull aches which tided him over until they saw each other again. Something about it, being marked, almost seemed romantic.

Jerome chuckles lowly and answers, “Why not both?” He retreats back into his seat, although he lays one hand on Bruce’s knee and doesn’t move it, not for the entire drive, not until Bruce parks and Jerome has to in order to remove his seatbelt. 

Spending time at Jerome’s apartment had always been suffused with a coziness that made Bruce feel at ease. It was small but homey with a warm colour palette, dark wood, and always, _always_ , some kind of homemade dish on the go and waiting to be plated. The kitchen was where Jerome had cared enough to invest in brand new equipment and tools instead of second-hand, and more than once Bruce had watched him as he worked—meticulously chopping and slicing and searing—and felt the stirrings of domesticity even before Jerome slid something in front of him with a fond kiss and an eager smile.

Jerome always loved to watch Bruce eat whatever he’d made. He said it made him feel a particular pride to be able to provide something, even if it were as seemingly simple as a well-cooked meal. 

It doesn’t surprise Bruce that the kitchen is where they gravitate to, with Bruce immediately slipping into one of the stools at the island. He looks down at his hands as Jerome quickly bustles about, in his element, and notices the slight smearing of dried blood on his fingertips and underneath his nails. There’s likely even more on him, because Bruce’s method of killing _was_ deeply personal, and _did_ have him getting close so that he could use a knife instead of simply keeping his distance and using a gun.

Bruce’s method of killing also involved him doing everything himself—researching patterns and people and places, taking advantage of the power and freedom his name leant him in order to get away with things that he couldn’t have gotten away with if he _weren’t_ from such an influential family—when it would have been much easier for him to sit back and pay someone else to do all the work for him.

But he had to do it himself.

It was important that in the seconds before their hearts stopped beating that the people on his list saw his face and realized who he was, who had dared to kill them. It was important that they remembered that they only had themselves to blame for their bloody, brutal endings.

It was important for them to know—

A mug is slid in front of him and Bruce pulls himself out of his musings, looking up with a subdued smile. 

“This smells like the hot cocoa that Alfred makes for me.”

“I secretly took pictures of some of his hand-written recipe cards the last time I was over.” Jerome winks and lounges in the other stool, his own mug gripped loosely in his hands as he playfully nudges at Bruce’s ankles with one of his feet. “So…”

“So…” Bruce grips the mug and brings it to his lips, not breaking eye contact with Jerome. He should probably be feeling trapped and anxious, within arm’s reach of another killer while in that killer’s territory. Especially when considering that, realistically, Bruce fit the exact profile of his own kills and subsequently what he assumes are _Jerome’s_ kills. But this is Jerome that he’s with. This is Jerome’s space; which Bruce has become familiar with and comfortable in. They’ve been together like this numerous times over the past three months and Bruce is still alive. Bruce really likes Jerome. Jerome really likes Bruce. “I suppose you want an explanation?” 

“Would you like to give an explanation?” The nudging of Jerome’s foot ceases when he casually crosses his ankles behind Bruce’s heel. He sounds level-headed, undemanding, like he doesn’t actually mind if Bruce keeps the reason behind why he commits murder in his free time to himself.

“I think so.” It might be nice to actually talk to someone about this, for once. “But I do have questions for you, afterwards.”

“Of course.” Jerome’s smile stretches as his eyes flutter half-shut, anticipatory. 

He’s excited to talk about this, Bruce realizes. About Bruce killing, about Jerome killing. He’s thrilled to have this opportunity, that they share this common ground. 

It’s a testament to how well-matched they truly are that Bruce is starting to get excited, too. 

The story, the most important piece of Bruce’s life, starts with one of the most notorious tragedies in Gotham’s recent history. Everything in his life can be traced back to the moment where his parents were murdered right in front of him in an alley. No matter how far he travelled from home, or what he did, everything lead back there. It was, in a way, the place where he was born. 

It was where he _began_.

But even if that piece of his personal history is common enough knowledge, there are other parts that newspapers and gossip magazines and the general public don’t know about. Bruce’s relentless search for his parents’ murderer. Bruce tracking him down. Bruce learning that it hadn’t been a coincidence that he’d been there that night, it had been a hit. Bruce’s hands holding a gun—the weapon he hated most of all, the weapon that took his parents away from him—and finding that he didn’t like the feeling of it. Bruce finding out very soon after that he didn’t mind holding a knife. 

The next part is harder to admit, if only because of the danger involved. If Jerome were anyone else, _anything else_ , Bruce wouldn’t dare speak of it. But Jerome is not a helpless civilian. Jerome, whether he knew it or not, had already taken down one of _them_. 

One of the Court. 

One of the people who’d had a hand in ordering the execution of Thomas and Martha Wayne. 

Jerome sits and listens as Bruce tells him about the Court of Owls, and how they’d quickly realized that he’d begun to look into them. Tells him about how he’d known, even back then, that he wasn’t strong enough to do anything about them by himself and that the law wouldn’t be able to help him. The Court were above the law. They were law. They _controlled_ the law. They had eyes and ears everywhere, fingers on every possible pulse, and seemingly endless resources between them all. In a city like Gotham, already so rife with corruption, they were able to get away with everything that they wanted.

In order to downplay their suspicion on him Bruce had withdrawn from Gotham with a heavy heart, but not completely. He left behind his own eyes and ears. He had his own sway over people who didn’t mind doing a bit of simple stalking, breaking and entering, and theft to get paid in cash. Over the years he’d added names to a mental list with the intent that one day he would wipe them all off the face of the Earth.

He’d come back to Gotham knowing that he was ready. Far more ready than he had been with his first ever kill, fumbling with Matches Malone enough that it was nothing short of a miracle that he hadn’t been caught.

He’d come back to Gotham knowing that, somewhere out there, someone else had already killed one of the people who he had set his mind on killing. 

It felt even more like destiny that he’d chosen now to come back, because the murders had started three months before he’d returned home and focused on the most grossly rich and powerful, all from the kinds of elite families who were likely to be part of the Court. It had been simple, then, for Bruce to merely copy the methods of the murderer who’d started before him.

Leave behind no bodies. No murder weapons. No signs. No messages to warn the Court of their impending doom.

They were just there one day, gone the next.

Bruce holds the empty mug, still warm in his hands, and watches Jerome watch him.

“I can go a lot of places where I shouldn’t, and my public persona means that not a lot of suspicion gets cast onto me. I’m just a typical Gotham trust-fund brat, you know, the kind who always gets underfoot because they learned from their parents early on that money and connections solve everything, and that bribery is a way of life.”

And the Court had definitely known that Bruce wasn’t in Gotham when the murders started, and it wasn’t only members of the Court who were currently being killed. Every time a Gotham elite who wasn’t part of the Court disappeared it made their murders seem more and more like a simple coincidence; linked only because the victims were rich assholes. 

Jerome looks him up and down in a slow sweep, like he’s savouring this moment. 

Like he’s seeing Bruce for what he really is.

Seeing him, and _understanding_ him.

Bruce swallows heavily, warmth coursing through him. There’s dried blood under his fingernails and on his clothes and on the knife that he’d slid back into the sheath hidden under his sweater, and he’d watched a man die by his hand tonight and dropped the body into the river, and he knows—he knows even if Jerome hasn’t directly told him yet—that Jerome is, in a way, his other half. 

The two halves of what the entirety of Gotham thought was one serial killer. 

And Bruce feels anticipation coiling within him.

He sets the empty mug down on the island and reaches out, taking both of Jerome’s hands in his own. 

“And what about you?” The urge to close the distance between them is hard to ignore, but Bruce would like a few concrete answers before they start anything that will inevitably lead to them getting their hands all over each other. “Who have you killed?”

Jerome hasn’t bothered to remember their names, but he lists out descriptors, and by the time he gets to his fourth murder—the member of the Court—Bruce decides that he doesn’t need to hear any more. He squeezes Jerome’s hands, wondering how he does it; if he uses a knife just like the one he’d pressed against Bruce before Bruce could kill him, if his hands end up smudged with blood, too.

Thinking about it—Jerome with a bloody knife, bloody hands, bloody smile—makes Bruce feel like squirming in his seat.

“Do you want to know why I killed them?” Jerome whispers, leaning in close.

“They’re the Gotham elite,” Bruce answers, and he knows exactly what that means. He is one of them, after all. “They probably deserved it.”

“Do you want to know what I do to them?” Jerome is so near that Bruce can feel his breath against his mouth. “It’s very profane. Might turn your stomach a little.”

“At the moment I’m more interested in knowing what you plan to do to me.”

“Oh?” Jerome’s ensuing chuckle is a deep rumble and the space between them lessen even more, his blunt teeth grazing ever-so-slightly against Bruce’s lips. “You’re clever, Bruce, surely you know by now that I love sinking my teeth into you.”

Figuratively and literally. 

Bruce nips at Jerome’s bottom lip. Gently, once, and then hard enough that Jerome jolts.

“Then sink your teeth into me.” He rocks back, tilting his head to the side just-so and lowering his lashes to look up through them in a way that Jerome had more or less admitted drove him crazy. “I like it when you do.”

“Oh, Bruce.” Jerome stands and tugs on Bruce’s hands, pulling him to his feet and leaning down to press a set of wet kisses to Bruce’s exposed throat. “I could just eat you up.”

“I’ve noticed,” Bruce says, voice a little too shaky to be droll, as Jerome starts guiding him out of the kitchen. 

“Really?” Jerome’s hands skim up under his sweater, curiously trailing along the leather of the knife holster, and Bruce’s own hands—hands that are still smudged with blood that he hasn’t gotten a chance to wash off yet—splay along Jerome’s lower back.

“You’re not exactly subtle, Jerome. Half the time that you—” His back hits the wall and Jerome presses a knee in between Bruce’s legs as his teeth skim along the trail of skin that he’d kissed. “Half the times that you’ve gone down on me you’ve told me, verbatim, ‘you know what they say, eat the rich’.”

Jerome chuckles at the repetition of his own crude humour. 

“You remember what I say before I go down on you?” Jerome’s hands grip his hips tightly. “I don’t know if I should be touched that you pay attention or worried that I don’t do enough to turn your sharp brain into mush.” His hands tug, and Bruce wraps his legs around Jerome for stability as he’s lifted, feeling somewhat breathless at the show of strength. Jerome didn’t have much on him in terms of height, but in terms of everything else…

Their killing styles were probably very different, considering their individual strengths, even though the end results were always the same.

Bruce wonders, heart pounding for more than one reason as Jerome literally carries him into his bedroom, if he’ll ever see Jerome’s handiwork someday, just like Jerome had seen his. 

As soon as they’re both situated on the bed they share sloppy, wet kisses as their hands work to loosen belts and remove shirts. It’s more hurried than usual, more desperate, as if they’d both been waiting for this moment ever since Bruce pinned Jerome to the ground and held that knife against his neck and were now making up for lost time. Even while knowing how fast they’re going and expecting it, Bruce still jerks at the feeling of Jerome shoving a hand into his pants to play with Bruce’s cock.

“Oh darlin’.” Jerome presses kisses to the fading bruises left on Bruce’s chest, and Bruce feverishly wonders if he’ll do the same to the ones on his hipbones. “We’d make a good team, you and me.”

They were already two halves of what Gotham thought was one serial killer, what would they be like if they actually started working together, supporting each other, coordinating kills?

Bruce’s chest hitches.

 _Breathtaking,_ he thinks.

“We would,” he agrees.

Then he tugs on Jerome’s hair to pull him up for a kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I've lured you in with murder husbands it's time to bombard you with the fact that Jerome saw Bruce kill a man and internally went: top me.

“I’m such a good boyfriend,” Jerome rumbles, nipping at one of the bruises he’d left on Bruce’s left hipbone while his fingers trail across the sturdy band of leather still affixed at Bruce’s waist. He can feel Bruce squirm sweetly under his mouth, can feel the hilt of the knife that Bruce had held against him, and it’s almost enough to drive him crazy. “I’m the best.”

“Of course you’re the best.” One of Bruce’s hands glides into his hair, petting at him in a way that makes Jerome feel strangely doted on. “You make me delicious food to eat, and then you eat me out.”

A startled but delighted laugh bursts forth from his mouth.

“What else?” Jerome prods, greedy as always for Bruce’s compliments and attention, while his fingers toy with the fastenings keeping the knife inside the sheath.

“Sometimes you bite me so hard that I think you’re about to take a chunk out of me.”

Jerome resists the urge to lick his lips.

_I wonder if you’d melt in my mouth._

“Do you mind it?”

“No,” Bruce replies softly, fingers twisting in Jerome’s hair and very lightly tugging. “Not really.”

I love you, Jerome thinks again.

“You’re so goddamn perfect for me,” he breathes, heart racing. “The way you looked with that knife in your hand, the way you were holding it against me. Fuck.” Just thinking about it, the power that Bruce had wielded in those moments where Jerome was still shocked by what he’d seen and utterly at his mercy, makes Jerome want Bruce in a way that he’s never wanted anyone else. “You should pin me down more often. Surprise me. Take control. Get on me. Fuck me.”

Bruce tugs his hair sharply, possibly more out of shock than anything else, but it makes Jerome’s pulse skip despite the lack of intention. 

“Fuck me,” Jerome repeats, wanting it even more now that he’s said it out loud. “Right now, I want you to.”

“Okay,” Bruce responds after a long moment before throwing his weight and twisting, forcing Jerome to flip onto his back with enough ease that it’s obvious he would have been able to out-maneuver Jerome like this the entire time that they’d been dating. Jerome may or may not stop breathing for a few seconds because of it. “Okay.”

Jerome winds his arms around Bruce’s shoulders and drags him down for another kiss.

They start stripping each other further, though Jerome purposefully skips over undoing the buckle of Bruce’s waist holster, something that Bruce undoubtedly takes note of but does nothing in the moment to rectify. And then Bruce is reaching into Jerome’s bedside table. And then one of Bruce’s slick fingers is sliding into him. And then Bruce is being so tender and gentle, and Jerome loves him, but Jerome is also eager and impatient. 

“Come on, come on, I’m ready,” he urges even before he’s fully comfortable with two fingers. Bruce pouts at him and sweetly kisses his cheek before crooking his fingers in a way that makes Jerome’s spread legs jerk.

“I don’t want to rush, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you hurt me.” In fact, Jerome is pretty confident that he would enjoy it. “Come on, Bruce.” He lowers his voice and flutters his eyelashes. “Please? I need you. Now.” 

Bruce makes no move to speed up. In fact he seems to become even slower, dragging his fingers in and out of Jerome leisurely. 

“I can hurt you, if you like,” Bruce says casually, as if that’s not one of the sexiest things that Jerome has ever heard coming out of his mouth. “But not from this, not because I didn’t do enough to make sure that you were ready.”

Jerome shifts, a half-formed idea of flipping Bruce onto his back and just riding him taking root in his mind. Bruce’s sharp eyes catch the movement before Jerome is able to do much of anything, though, and he presses his free hand down on Jerome’s chest, fingers splayed wide, applying just enough pressure that Jerome can’t take a full breath. 

His hand had been pressing against Jerome like this when he’d been holding that knife to Jerome’s throat.

Jerome’s heart races and his cock strains. Then he starts to squirm, shallowly fucking himself on Bruce’s fingers, even more impatient than before.

“Jerome,” Bruce’s tone is firm, demanding, in-charge. It makes Jerome wonder what it would have been like if Bruce spoke to him like this when he’d had that knife pressed against him. Hot. Sexy. Even with his life on the line Jerome probably wouldn’t have been able to stop thinking about pleading to be spared via offering to suck Bruce’s cock. “No.”

“Bruce,” Jerome practically whines, halfway between playful-teasing and needy-sincerity. “I’m serious, I’m ready, come on, just fuck me. Come on, I want it, I—”

Bruce’s hand slides up to clasp his throat and Jerome’s teeth clack together as his mouth abruptly snaps shut. Bruce hums lowly, and his grip tightens ever so slightly. 

“Would it kill you to _behave_ for once?”

Jerome stares up at Bruce’s nearly-deadpan expression, blank but for the slight, telling upward turn at one corner of his mouth, and licks his lips before managing to rasp, “Probably, yeah.”

Bruce’s fingers around his neck twitch before he applies a little more pressure. He must be able to feel Jerome’s pulse pounding. He’s probably watching for any signs that he should pull back, but Jerome’s pretty sure that he’s on the verge of swooning for all the best reasons. 

“Try for me, then.” Bruce’s eyelashes flutter, deceptively sweet, as he leans down while a third finger begins to trace around Jerome’s slick rim. “And I’ll give you—” He lightly kisses the corner of Jerome’s open, panting mouth while his hand steadily grips Jerome’s vulnerable throat. “—a reward.”

It would be so easy right now for Bruce to seriously hurt or even kill him, but he won’t. 

Jerome _knows_ that he won’t. 

“I’ll try. No promises.”

“Liar,” Bruce accuses fondly. His third finger presses inside, and Jerome barely chokes down a desperate noise. “If I didn’t like you so much I’d punish you, instead of rewarding you.”

Jerome groans, hands reaching up to dig into Bruce’s hair. “You’re doing this to me on purpose.”

“Yes.” Bruce kisses the other corner of his mouth, sounding amused. “I am.”

Jerome doesn’t stop trying to hurry Bruce up, and Bruce stubbornly doesn’t let Jerome talk him into getting that pretty-boy dick into him as soon as humanly possible. By the time Bruce is working a fourth finger into him Jerome is shaking, breaths hitching, cock leaking against his stomach. He has a fleeting thought that he might actually come just like this, without Bruce’s cock in him but with the dizzying knowledge that Bruce was okay with choking him, but then Bruce’s fingers slip all the way out of him and Bruce is staring down at him, so affectionate that Jerome thinks his heart could crack open from all the emotions that being the recipient of a look like that at a time like this is instilling inside of his chest. 

Then the head of Bruce’s dick finally slides against him, grazing right against where he’s open and wet, and Jerome can’t help but swing his legs around Bruce’s hips and force him all the way inside. They both gasp at the feeling of it, and Bruce’s fingers clench around Jerome for a few fleeting, beautiful seconds.

“Fuck,” Bruce says under his breath, voice strained, obviously trying his best to stay still even though Jerome _needs_ him to _move_. “Jerome.”

“Yes, exactly.” Jerome’s hands slip out of Bruce’s hair, nails raking down his shoulders. “Fuck me, Bruce. Come on, come on, please.”

Bruce inhales sharply, hand withdrawing from Jerome’s neck to brace against the bed. Jerome heatedly wonders if he’d left any marks behind; reddened skin, maybe even some bruising, anything, anything to mark Jerome in the same way that Jerome was so fond of marking him. Then Bruce retreats and thrusts forward, and Jerome’s thoughts scatter.

They’re both already wound tight from the buildup, they’re both close enough to the edge from the sheer, unthinkable intimacy of it all—to dispose of a body together, to be open in a way they had never been with anyone else, to be laying themselves completely bare—that Jerome knows they’re not going to last long. Not when this has been brewing, as far as he’s concerned, since the very moment that Bruce pushed him down and pressed a blade against him. Jerome kisses and sucks at any skin that his mouth can reach, nails dragging up and down Bruce’s back, trembling legs wrapped around him tight. Bruce murmurs sweet things under his breath; about how good Jerome feels, and how handsome he is, and how hard Bruce is going to make him come. 

And then Bruce presses the blade of his knife against Jerome’s neck. 

Jerome’s body draws tight, an elastic about to snap.

“Come on, Jerome,” Bruce whispers, voice laced with desperation. “Come for me, _darling_.”

The tension breaks.

Jerome’s eyes clench shut as he comes hard, pleasure releasing throughout his body in waves. His legs clamp around Bruce as he rolls his hips, until Bruce is cursing and shaking above him, his steady grip on the knife beginning to tremble just as it had when he’d been sure that Jerome was going to have to die.

When Jerome goes limp underneath him, mind pleasantly blank, Bruce moves the weapon aside and kisses his slack mouth. It takes several long seconds for Jerome to even think about kissing back, but when he does Bruce goes limp, all of his weight resting on Jerome as his hands weave into Jerome’s hair.

They share soft kisses for a while, even after Jerome shifts so that Bruce is beside him instead of on top of him. Their legs tangle together. Their hands cradle faces and drag up and down backs. When they do break apart they watch each other through heavily-lidded eyes, utterly content.

Utterly in love.

Bruce is never going to be able to get rid of him now, but Jerome suspects that Bruce won’t mind. They’re alike, after all, in more than one way.

He hazily hopes that, the next time they do this, he experiences the sting of a fresh cut to go along with everything else. 

“You haven’t spoken for a while,” Bruce murmurs under his breath, a smile tugging at his lips. “Did I fuck you speechless?” 

“Ha.” Jerome nudges closer, playfully grazing his teeth along Bruce’s neck before nuzzling his face into the crook of it. “You wish. I’m basking in the afterglow, Bruce.” And what an afterglow it is. It makes Jerome distantly wonder what it would be like if they killed someone together, and how it would compare.

He can’t wait to find out.

Bruce hums lowly, his hands slowly coming to a stop. Jerome backs up just enough to look at him, unable to stop himself from grinning at Bruce’s disheveled appearance even though he knows he must look just as fucked-out.

What a perfect pair they make.

It really is almost enough to make him believe in destiny. 

Bruce fumbles with getting his holster off, and Jerome pulls all of the sheets over them, too worn out to bother with rolling out of bed to pull on pajama pants. Wrapped up in each other, cocooned in Jerome’s blankets, they fall asleep to the soft sound of each other’s breathing. 

The sun has already been up for a few hours by the time Jerome stirs in the morning, warm and tired and aching in the best possible way. He can’t resist peppering soft kisses across Bruce’s face before dragging himself out of bed and slipping an old tee shirt and pair of track pants on. 

He’s a little low on meat—he had been expecting to stock his stores up last night, after all—but he has enough supplies tucked away to make a decent breakfast. Pancakes drizzled in real maple syrup, scrambled eggs, and the very last of the sausages that he’d made from the ground up thigh of kill number eight. He wishes that he had a heart on hand, but he’ll plan out a grand meal for such a grand gesture; the perfect accompaniment for his first ‘I love you’.

Jerome has only been in the kitchen for a handful of minutes before Bruce shuffles out of the bedroom, wearing a pair of Jerome’s pajama pants with one of Jerome’s blankets draped over his shoulders, and starts the process of brewing them coffee before he settles into one of the stools in front of the island. 

Jerome loves when Bruce watches him cook almost as much as he loves watching Bruce eat. 

There was something romantic about it; showing off that he could provide for Bruce and also, much more subtly and secretly, that he could protect him. Even now that he knows that Bruce is more than capable of protecting himself, that doesn’t stop the strong desire to have a few of Bruce’s old _friends_ for dinner. It’s obvious that Jerome’s slaughtering of rich people who aren’t part of the Court has helped Bruce stay under their radar, but that didn’t mean that Jerome couldn’t occasionally help Bruce with his kills while focusing on his own goals.

And every once in a while their targets were bound to be the same person.

He’s looking forward to that so much. 

The coffee finishes just as Jerome start plating up. Bruce moves again, casually entering Jerome’s space and opening Jerome cupboards to take out a pair of mugs. He stirs sugar into both, then adds a generous splash of cream to Jerome’s, just the way he likes it, as Jerome sets down their plates and cutlery. He hands one mug over to Jerome, who takes it and leans in to press a lingering kiss to Bruce’s cheek.

“Jerome?”

“Yes?”

Bruce settles on his stool again, Jerome following after him.

“What _do_ you do to the people you kill? You told me that you’d show me where yours go.”

Jerome smiles, wolfish.

“Finish your breakfast first, darlin’. I wouldn’t want it to get cold.”

Bruce rolls his eyes fondly and slides his serrated knife into a sausage. 

They eat together, just like they have dozens of times before this and just like they will thousands of times after. Jerome watches each of Bruce’s subtle reactions whenever he takes a dainty bite, his impeccable table manners always keeping him from devouring a dish without taking the opportunity to savour what he’d been served, no matter how hungry he may be. By the time Bruce is three-quarters done he’s practically itching with anticipation, eager to share one final secret with Bruce.

This will be the last thing that Jerome has prepared for him where Bruce is still in the dark about how Jerome’s meat has been sourced. Bruce might not appreciate his cunning at first, but Jerome is sure he’ll come around. He did love Jerome’s cooking, after all.

Bruce finishes his last bite with a pleased sigh before setting his cutlery down, cradling his half-empty mug in his hands as he turns to Jerome expectantly. 

“So, the bodies,” Bruce prompts, sounding genuinely intrigued. “Where, or how, do you get rid of them? You’re at over half a dozen kills, now, and no one has ever found a trace of anyone who’s gone missing.”

“I’m telling you again.” Jerome reaches out to playfully pat a hand over Bruce’s abdomen, and Bruce raises a pointed eyebrow at him when Jerome withdraws. “It might turn your stomach.”

“You really butcher them, huh?”

Jerome dissolves into a fit of laughter.

“Yeah, yeah,” he manages between chuckles. “That’s a good way to put it.”

Bruce gingerly sets his coffee back down on the island. “Whatever you do, however you do it, it’s not going to scare me off, if you’re worried about that.” He reaches out, gently laying a hand upon Jerome’s knee. “I’m curious, really, about how you’ve done so much without getting caught.”

Jerome grabs onto Bruce’s hand, bringing it up to his mouth to press a kiss to his knuckles.

“Well, Bruce, I have a very particular way of disposal. You know me, I love to be an agent of chaos.”

Bruce huffs out a soft laugh, and Jerome beams at him.

“After I’ve picked my target,” he starts lowly, and Bruce closes some of the distance between them to hear him better. “After I’ve cornered them, and watched them beg for their life, and killed them without mercy, I make sure that there’s nothing left for them to be identified by.”

“How?”

“I break them down into parts that no one thinks to bat their eyes at. I gut them, and saw their bones, and feed their unusable organs to stray dogs, but that’s not all that I do to get rid of every piece and part of them.” Jerome leans closer to fondly whisper, “Bruce, you’re the only rich person that I eat in a fun, mutually enjoyable way.”

There’s a second where Bruce is still processing Jerome’s words, and his expression is soft and open in a way that makes Jerome want to go out on a spree tonight so that he can get a fresh, healthy heart to prepare for Bruce by tomorrow.

And then Bruce blanches, the blood abruptly draining from his face.

“Excuse me?”

Jerome’s hand reaches forward again, fingers grazing against Bruce’s stomach. Bruce’s eyes are wide, doe-like. Jerome wants to chase the taste of the lovingly-prepared human-meat in Bruce’s mouth, but for now he controls himself.

“I eat them, Bruce.” His fingers tap against Bruce twice. “One of them is in here right now, darlin’.”

Bruce’s breath hitches, complexion becoming almost sickly as he—

Ha.

—digests Jerome’s meal and his words.

He lurches as if he’s about to fling himself away, perhaps to either induce vomiting or to put some space between them, but Jerome grabs him before he can go and pulls him close.

“There’s no need to be distressed, Bruce,” he coos. “A little cannibalism never hurt anyone, and from the very beginning you’ve always told me how much you loved whatever I made for you. You like it, just like I do. I slaughter the Gotham elite, I butcher them, I degrade them, I devour them. It’s almost poetic, don’t you think? Once someone is dead, all they really are is meat.”

“You’ve been…” Bruce breathes heavily, as if it’s taking all of his concentration to keep his breakfast down. “You’ve been feeding me people without my knowledge for our entire relationship?”

“Yeah.” Jerome presses adoring kisses to both of his cheeks. “I never knew it could be so nice to cook for someone else. You’ll have to forgive the secrecy, couldn’t exactly let you in on it just so that you’d run and tell the cops.” Jerome cups Bruce’s wan face in his hands, watching him closely. “But we’ve got no more secrets between us, now. Isn’t that sweet?”

“I’m going to throw up,” Bruce croaks, eyes firmly focussed just beyond Jerome’s shoulder.

“No you’re not. Your mind is a little stressed, but your body knows and recognizes what you’ve just eaten. Your body accepts it, and your mind will soon, too. It’s just like when parents sneak vegetables into their kid’s food.”

“It’s not, Jerome.” His voice is gurgling, saliva building up in his mouth. “It’s really, _really_ not.”

“Shh, shh.” Jerome drags his thumbs in soothing circles against Bruce’s cheeks. “It’s okay, Bruce. I’ll make you some ginger tea, hmm? Settle your precious tummy down a little. We’ll spend the day together, and to help take your mind off of everything I’ll suck you off. You know that I _love_ having you in my mouth just as much as you do.”

Bruce’s hitching breaths momentarily pause, and his eyes snap over to lock on Jerome.

“Jerome…” He swallows heavily. “I fit the profile of my own kills, which means that I fit the profile of yours.”

“You do,” Jerome agrees, indulgent. 

Bruce’s eyes scan his face. He doesn’t look particularly pleased, but he also doesn’t look like he’s about to hurl all over Jerome’s feet.

“Have you ever thought about…”

“Eating you?” Jerome leans into him, pulse fluttering. “Oh Bruce, even before we met I wondered what you’d taste like. I’m so glad that I didn’t kill you, darlin’. I get to have you every day, now.” He kisses Bruce’s slack mouth. “I get to savour each part of you the way that you deserve, this way.” Bruce doesn’t pull him closer, but he doesn’t push him away, either, and he doesn’t try to run. 

Frankly this is going much better than Jerome expected.

Maybe it really was destiny that they found each other. 

Jerome sighs, leaning back just slightly. He meets Bruce’s piercing gaze with one full of devotion and love.

“You and I are going to bring this city to its knees, Bruce. No one, not even the Court, are going to be able to survive us,” he states earnestly. “You hate them more than anything, Bruce, and I’m going to help you destroy them all. We’re going to desecrate their bodies, use them to feed ourselves, and reduce them to nothing but shit.”

Beautiful as a sunset, longed for like a home-cooked meal, better than knowing that the Gotham elite weren’t only killed but were also humiliated once they were nothing more than lifeless flesh—

And Jerome’s favourite kind of accomplishment. 

—Bruce’s lips twitch in a barely-there smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bts (after Bruce has had a little bit longer to process everything)
> 
> “Oh my god,” he mutters before repeating, louder, “Oh my god, you have been making cannibal puns during our _entire relationship_.”
> 
> “I mean, I was doing _that_ even before we were together, Bruce. If it makes you feel any better; no one’s go-to guess about what is wrong with me after being exposed to my sense of humour has ever been cannibalism.”


End file.
